Goblet of Mist
by Poorfox
Summary: Harry's fourth year at Hogwarts begins on a darker note, and he's forced to leave behind what little innocence he has left. War is coming. For some people it's already here. Just Harry just isn't good enough any more. It's time to live up to the legend.
1. Tarnished Silver

_A/N: I've finally decided to take a little wander into the most popular fandom for fanfiction – just to see what happens. If you have any reviews, comments, criticisms, or requests to share, feel free to hand me a review at the end of the chapter. If you want to, feel free to flame – just don't expect a reply if you do. I'll do my best to respond to each and every serious review; even if it's just a simple 'thank you.' I could ramble on for longer, but why would you want to hear my diatribe when there's a chunk of fiction down below? Just to clarify, this is an AU, and the story diverges from canon around about now – the Death Eater attack on the campsite at the Quidditch world cup._

Harry shifted restlessly in his bunk, hearing the faint sound of screams in the distance. He wasn't sure whether he was awake or asleep, but clenched his teeth in anticipation of a coming nightmare. Only a week ago he had seen the strangest of images as he slept – Pettigrew, and Voldemort. He would have dismissed it as an ordinary dream were it not for the pain he felt in his scar upon waking. There was no pain now, but this, too, was no ordinary dream. It was no dream at all.

"Ron! Harry! Get up, quickly! This is urgent!"

He recognized it as Mr Weasley's voice, and turned over onto his side, vaguely wondering why he was dreaming about him – and promptly fell out of the bunk, falling several feet onto thick purple carpet. The wind was knocked out of him with a dull thump, and he groaned softly.

"Dad? What's going on?" said Ron, sounding half-asleep himself. Behind Ron's voice, Harry could hear the distant screams again. Panicked shouts came over the screams, and feet hitting the ground punctuated all other sounds in sharp staccato bursts. People were running. He picked himself up, an acrid taste in his mouth. Beneath the faint scent of cats that permeated the tent he could smell smoke. It pulled at his nostrils at caused water to gather in the corner of his eyes.

"Put on a jacket and get outside!" Arthur Weasley, normally an imperturbably calm and placid man, had an air of command in his voice that Harry had never heard before. This, more than anything, caused him to rush out of the tent. It was a lot louder outside, and Mr Weasley had to shout over the noise. "We're going to help the Ministry. Get into the woods – stay close to each other!"

Everything was burning. Harry could see figures running about the campsite, almost all heading into the woods, away from the tents. Raucous laughter came from somewhere over to his left, and as Harry turned, he saw what everyone was fleeing. A crowd of figures dressed in black robes was marching slowly across the campsite, wands held in clenched fists, and emitting bursts of light in a dozen colours. Drunken jeers echoed the bangs and crashes whenever one hit a solid object, causing it to burst into flame, or explode, or simply snap in two like a broken twig. Some of the figures clustered towards the centre held their wands upright, pointing into the night sky – and the four distorted bodies suspended as if from invisible strings. With flicks of their wands, or flashes of light from the others', they twisted the dangling figures into impossible shapes, and bounced them around. With a sickening realization, Harry saw who and what the figures were – they were the muggle family who owned the campsite, and they were toys.

Ron dashed out of the tent, followed closely by Fred and George, who stared at the gruesome scene before them in disgust and horror. Tormenting the muggles was something that Harry knew the twins could take in their stride, and perhaps even find amusing if not done to such a cruel extent, but the laughter coming from the black-robed crowd below sickened him to the bone. By the expressions on their faces, he saw that they shared the sentiment.

"Death Eaters," muttered Fred, glaring at the sight. He fumbled for his wand, and made a move as if to step towards them, but Percy grabbed his arm.

"Stay together. We'll sort this out. It'll be safer in the woods," said Percy, speaking over one shoulder, and running towards the Death Eaters, matched in stride by his older brothers and My Weasley.

Hermione came from the tent, clutching Ginny's hand tightly in her own. Her face was tightly drawn in worry, and Harry could only imagine what his own looked like. About the same, he thought. They all shared a similar expression. Fred and George looked the most troubled – torn between a desire to join the Ministry wizards attempting to help the muggle family and reluctance to leave the others behind, Harry thought. He felt exactly the same. Hermione seemed to pick up on this, and began to pull him towards the woods.

"Come on, Harry. You can't possibly help. You'll only get in the way," she said. Her words snapped Fred and George out of their own reverie, and they dashed off, tugging Ginny along with them, and beckoning for the others to follow. Harry hesitated, looking towards the crowd of Death Eaters once more. The look of fear on her face, and revulsion on Ron's, made the decision for him. He couldn't leave them alone.

Inside the woods, the trees were clustered close, spiny branches looking more like claws and less like the bright countryside that Harry had walked through to the stadium only hours before. He almost imagined them reaching closer to their small group when he spotted movement between the narrow trunks. Shadowy figures were roaming around, snapping branches and crashing into one another. A lump caught in his throat, and he pulled his wand out from his back pocket, expecting to see the masks and robes of Death Eaters. The sound of crying children met his ears, and he realized his mistake. These were the people who had been running away.

When they got closer to the people hiding in the woods, they began to get pushed to and fro by bodies whose faces they could not make out. Harry forced his way through the frightened throng to a clearer space, Ron and Hermione close on his heels. An elbow left a slight bruise on his stomach, and he almost walked over a small girl who was clutching at her mother's hand and whimpering softly, but he didn't manage to fall over – Ron did. If the situation was not so dire, Harry knew that it would have been funny, but with things as they were, a chill spread through him when he heard a yelp of pain coming from behind him.

"Ron? Are you okay?" asked Harry, looking around for his friend, but unable to find him in the dark. Hermione bumped into his back, and let out a surprised noise.

"This is ridiculous," said Hermione, drawing her wand out of her coat pocket, and waving it in a tight motion. "_Lumos_" The tip of her wand glistened for a moment, and a small orb of light grew in front of it. It cast a ghostly pallor over the trees, making the scene look more eerie than ever. Ron lay sprawled on the ground at the base of a tree, his face paler than the arcane light alone could account for.

"I...fell," said Ron, grabbing the hand that Harry offered and pulling himself up. "I thought someone pushed me, but there was nobody...." His words trailed off, and he brushed some of the dirt that had collected on his chest and arms in the fall. "Must have tripped over a tree root." Harry stared past his head, back towards the campsite. In getting away from the crowd in the woods, they had come right to the edge, where the trees dwindled and gave way to tents. The crowd of Death Eaters could be seen, not so very far away at all. A wave of revulsion flooded through Harry – he hated being unable to do anything to help. The muggle family still lay sprawled in midair, more distorted and unnatural than Ron could look if he had fallen over a thousand tree roots.

A drawling voice came from the shadows to his side, and his distaste deepened. He knew that voice, and it was not one he wanted to hear.

"With feet that size it _is_ hard not to." Draco Malfoy leaned against another tree, looking completely at ease amidst the carnage so close to him. His typical smirk was plastered all over his face, and Harry knew what he had been doing – watching the Death Eaters tormenting the muggles. It was the kind of thing that he would enjoy.

"Malfoy," he spat, knowing full well that he was probably just as eager to get over to them as he was, but for an entirely different reason. Malfoy would want to join in. "That your dad out there?" A sneer matched his smirk in arrogance – Harry knew both expressions all too well after three years at Hogwarts together.

"Enjoying the show, Potter?" Malfoy laughed, both to himself and in Harry's face. "You want to watch yourself out here. They'll be coming after you lot next."

"Why would they want us?" Hermione cut in. Harry could tell what she was thinking – as the most brilliant young witch of their age, she often jumped to conclusions quickly. She was right more often than not, save for when it involved the forces of darkness and their personal vendetta against Harry.

"Because of you, mudblood," said Draco, his sneer taking on a cast of disgust. "They're looking for muggles."

"Hermione's a witch!" said Ron. Harry did as Hermione had been telling them to for years, and ignored Malfoy. No matter what he said or did, the little pale-haired rat would never change his ways. It was far from pleasant having someone like Draco around at the best of times, but at least he was more than justified in hexing him from time to time. Seeing Draco with boils rupturing everywhere on his body was always a good way to cheer himself up.

"Want to try telling that to _them?_" Draco's sarcasm was lost on Harry, who simply glared at him for a moment before answering.

"Yeah, go on them," he said angrily. He didn't think Draco would want to attract the attention of sadistic drunkards even if he wholeheartedly agreed with their ethics. When Draco opened his mouth and called out to them, his voice reaching above even the chaotic noise in the campsite, Harry began to understand that Draco didn't simply sympathise with the Death Eaters, but was a Death Eater in waiting already. Were it not for the fact that Voldemort was nowhere to be found, chances were that he'd already be one of them, and be doing much worse than hoisting muggles in the air by their ankles.

"Have it your way. Mudblood! Mudblood in the woods!" Most of the crowd stayed where they were, occupied by the joint tasks of fending off the handful of Ministry wizards attempting to bring the muggles down safely and making the most of their first time truly out in the open in the last ten years. Five or six, however, broke away from the mob and came towards the woods. Towards Harry, Ron, and Hermione. As much as Harry wanted to fight, he knew that he stood no chance alone against so many fully grown wizards versed in the Dark Arts. Ron and Hermione half a step ahead of him, he turned and fled deeper into the woods. Draco's sardonic laughter echoed in his ears, and he ground his teeth together in frustration. He hated being so useless.

Minutes later, they were much deeper in the woods. It seemed darker in here, and the trees were closer, but Harry couldn't be sure that the Death Eaters had been left behind. Several times as they ran he had thought he'd heard someone – or more than one – close on their heels. It could have simply been Ron's clumsy stride through branches and foliage, snapping and rustling the plant life as they ran, but he wasn't sure. Part of him hoped that it wasn't.

"Where do you think Fred and George have got to?" he asked, a little out of breath from running. They slowed to a walk to catch their breath, Ron and Hermione panting quite heavily. While still slender, playing Quidditch had helped to get Harry into shape. At times like these, he was grateful for that.

"Dunno," panted Ron, a few beads of sweat beginning to appear on his forehead, even in the dim light of Hermione's illuminated wand. "Ginny's with them, so they can't have gone far." Harry nodded, although he wasn't sure if the others saw him. Up ahead it was a little brighter. There was a clearing in the woods. Silvery light came from between the trees, a little brighter than the moonlight should have been. Not much, but enough that Harry noticed. When they entered the clearing, they saw why.

A group of young wizards were gathered in a huddle around three vela, tall and stately as they were beautiful. Silvery –blonde hair reflected the moonlight, brightening the clearing. Harry recognized one of the young wizards as Stan Shunspike, conductor of the Knight Bus.

"I'm a vampire hunter, I am. Get thousands o' galleons every year from the Ministry in payment for performin' such a difficult task. Well known, I am. You say you never 'eard of me?" Hermione snorted in derision, and Harry suppressed a laugh. He saw that Ron's face had gone an odd shade of purple, and watched him lean forward to shout over Stan's voice.

"I've invented a broomstick that'll reach Jupiter!" Harry pulled him back, and Hermione glared at him. The three veela glanced disinterestedly at the newcomers, and Stan followed their gaze. He looked confused for a moment, as if torn between looking at the trio and ogling the veela. After a moment of inner struggle that showed clearly in his eyes, he clapped a hand round Harry's shoulders.

"This is my good mate Harry Potter. Taught him all 'e knows, I did." The veela murmured amongst themselves, and seemed to come to a decision. They looked at Harry, and smiled, showing perfect white teeth. Their hair moved as if in an unseen breeze, and he felt their own unusual brand of magic strike him. His eyes widened, and everything faded away from him but the veela. He struggled to fight against it, but it was too strong. Unlike in the stadium, where their charm had been unfocused, cast over a large group, these three were focusing their power on him. It was too much – they were too beautiful – to resist. He was scarcely aware of Hermione tugging at his sleeve, or Ron staring at the veela beside him. They were everything.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard rustling behind him, and harsh laughter. Hermione's shout of fear didn't get through to him – it was just noise. There were Death Eaters behind him. Part of him knew that. The problem was that he didn't care. The veela were too important. His eyes were riveted on them, and his back was turned to the Death Eaters. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see one raise his wand, pointing it at Harry. Nothing mattered. One of the veela moved her lips silently. Harry, fixated upon her, could hear her unspoken words. More than hearing! He could feel the request – the demand – reverberate in the deepest depths of his being. The veela were everything, and he was nothing. Nothing, yes, but their nothing. He wanted nothing more than to please them, to please his angelic mistresses. Her lips moved again, and the words came again, somehow louder, despite making no sound.

"Protect us!"

Harry fell to the ground, and a narrow beam of sickly grey smoke shot overhead. It hit a tree, and the trunk scorched black as if burnt. Leaves rained down from overhead, and in a matter of seconds, it had withered and died. He couldn't let that happen to the veela. He had to protect them. Nothing was more important. Rising in a swift motion, he knocked the Death Eater's wand aside, using so much force that both their wrists broke. Harry didn't care. His pain didn't matter. All that mattered was protecting the veela. That thought rushed through him, over and over, screaming in his ears with a frantic desperation. His right hand was unharmed – he could still perform magic. The other Death Eaters clustered together, wands held out, pointing at Harry. He had to fight them, and he wanted to. Both the part of him that was entranced by the veela and the core of his being which had struggled against their control fell silent within him, held together in agreement. He had to protect them. Not just the veela, but everyone. He couldn't let anyone be harmed tonight, especially not his beautiful mistresses. He would die first.

Curling his forefinger around his own wand, Harry stared at the Death Eaters with hate in his eyes. He didn't know any offensive spells, minor hexes and jinxes aside. Schoolboy pranks would do no good against these dark wizards. He bit his lip, determined to do whatever he could, no matter how useless it was. He didn't even know how to cast a simple shield charm properly. His eyes turned to the veela as he wondered how to protect them best. He didn't want to entertain the thought of failure. They seemed to know the question he was asking himself, and gave the answer.

"Use the most powerful spell you know, Harry Potter. Show no mercy. Protect us!"

His mind worked furiously. He didn't know many powerful spells – he was only fourteen. He could attempt to animate the trees, but he had never succeeded in animating the simplest of objects. Even Hermione was still struggling with that feat. He wanted to destroy the Death Eaters, not simply stop them. Stunning spells, or petrification were useless. They wouldn't fully sate his anger at the ones who dared to harm the beautiful creatures he protected. The Death Eaters moved closer, almost seeming to glide across the mossy ground in their black cloaks. In the turmoil of his mind, Harry remembered another creature that moved with that horrible glide. Dementors. He was adept at banishing them, and had been able to cast the patronus charm; a spell of power far beyond that of his years. There – that was the answer he sought. A feral grin lit his face. He felt no joy at being able to guard his mistresses, only a grim satisfaction. They filled his thoughts too much, and he couldn't bring up another happy memory. What could make him happier than standing in the presence of the three veela he adored – and yet he was not happy. No, he felt no joy, only anger. It twisted within him, burrowing deeper and deeper into his heart. He didn't care if the patronus charm failed him. He had to try. Harry knew his feelings were wrong, but he remembered the first time he had ever cast a patronus. Lupin had asked him to find a new memory, a different one. He had replied that it was not happy – not quite – but it was the best he had.

"Is it strong, Harry?" Lupin had asked him. It had been. The feelings running through him now – they, too, were strong. Stronger than anything he had ever felt before.

Harry summoned every vestige of anger, both wrought by the veela's magic and by his own hatred of evil. The Death Eaters would _not _harm those he cared about. Anger and hate poured out of him, held together by fine threads of his desire to protect, above all else. Dark mist began to emanate from the tip of his wand, and he opened his mouth to scream the incantation.

"_Expecto Patronum!_" were the words that tore away from him, borne towards the Death Eaters on a wind of anger. The mist seeping from Harry's wand coalesced, thickening into solid form. The Death Eaters took a half step back as it took on the shape of a stag. Harry had fond memories of his patronus, despite the dark times in which he conjured it. It was one irrevocable link to his father. "The best defence is a good offence," murmured Harry, more to himself than to the Death Eaters. His eyes were dark and hooded, invisible in the dim light. The patronus did not light up the clearing. It darkened it.

Shadows clung to the sides of the stag, and tall antlers held high above its head were shot through with streaks of black. These same streaks of black flooded through the stag's body, writhing as if they were alive, and giving the stag a demonic appearance. This ethereal saviour did not exist to deflect harm. It existed to bring harm to those who meant it.

The patronus pawed the ground with a hoofed foreleg. A ripple of unease passed through the Death Eaters, and they moved their wands to point at it. It raised its head and let loose a vengeful cry before lowering its antlers, pointing straight at the Death Eaters as their wands pointed at it. The nearest one must have assumed it was an illusion, because he did not move.

"_Finite Incantatum,_" muttered the robed figure, lazily waving his wand. When nothing happened, he repeated the action. It seemed to, if anything, infuriate the patronus. It charged straight at him, catching him on the antlers, and goring him like a bull. The antlers tore through the heavy fabric of his robes without any difficulty, and crushed their way into the Death Eater's chest with little more effort. Bright red blood gathered at the point where the antlers entered his body, and dripped out of his back. Harry was surprised by how little he seemed to bleed. Perhaps the Death Eaters, after all, were just bloodless cowards hiding behind their dark master.

"_Incendio,_" said Harry, flicking his wand in the direction of the gored Death Eater. His robes and hair burst into flame, and the smell of burning flesh filled the clearing. He smiled when the stench hit his nostrils, and jerked his head towards the other Death Eaters. The patronus mimicked him, causing the Death Eater to slide off his antlers, flying into the others. They quickly put out the fire with jets of water from their wands, but the damage was done. One of them was gone, dead at the hands of their master's bane.

Shouts of anger came from the black-robed wizards, but Harry felt no fear. He was awash in a sea of emotions, all screaming within him, louder and more forceful than ever before. Agony seemed to split his skull in two – not from his scar, but from the sheer effort of conjuring a patronus such as he had. It was feeding on him, using his emotions as strength, and fuelling its power on the feelings rushing through him. Harry thought that this must be what it felt like to be struck by lightning. He wasn't in control of vast and powerful magic, he was just the conduit through which fuel for the patronus was flowing.

His eyes rolled up into the back of his head from the pain and pressure. It felt like his head was going to explode, and shards of glass seemed to be embedded beneath his skull. The patronus was not deterred. Harry couldn't see it, but he could somehow feel it, as if it were an extension of his body. He felt it leap across the distance to the Death Eaters, landing atop one and crushing his legs above the knees. It turned, knocking a third to the ground with a sweep of its antlers, tearing ragged gashes in his arm. The arm was not quite broken, but a pleasing sound – to Harry's ears – of scraping bone suggested that it had been torn open enough to show slivers of white.

Harry was swaying on his feet when the next Death Eater fell. A tripping jinx from one of his friends caused him to land solidly on his stomach. The patronus promptly trampled him, bones snapping beneath its weight. He never got up again.

Two more were left standing. Two more able to fight. Ron caught Harry's arm and held him upright, saying something that Harry couldn't make out. Hermione was saying something too, in the background. Their words were meaningless. All he understood was anger, and pain, and an overwhelming desire to protect the ones before him.

The patronus crushed its body against the first of the final pair, causing him to fall backwards, almost toppling over. Supporting himself by grabbing at his companion, he managed to prevent himself from falling. When the patronus attacked them again, he was not so lucky, and they both fell to the ground. Both of them had their skulls crushed by powerful forelegs, leaving only corpses behind, still warm from the life that had surged through their veins only moments ago.

Harry slumped to the mossy floor, his vision swimming. It was too hard to stay awake. He could see the veela, leaving the clearing hurriedly. He assumed that they had no wish to be caught up in this mess, either, and didn't blame them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he missed their presence, and wished for them to return, but even that thought could not stay. It hurt to think.

"Are you okay?" asked Hermione, kneeling beside Harry with a worried expression. He looked at her blearily, but couldn't answer. His tongue felt as if it was made of rubber, and his limbs of lead. A burst of green light overhead caused him to look up, straining his tired muscles as much as was possible. He couldn't move far, but it was enough to see what was suspended in the sky above. A luminous green skull of terrifying proportions stared down at him. A snake hung out of its mouth in place of a tongue, writhing in the sky with an unnatural life. Hermione gave a small squeak of fear, and he could see Ron's pale face grow even paler.

Beams of red light blocked his sight of the skull, flying overhead in every direction. Voices cried out all around him.

"Stupefy!"

Harry could see Arthur Weasley running towards them from between the trees. He didn't recognize the others gathered around them, and they didn't seem to be listening to Mr Weasley's demands that they stop. Eventually they seemed to hear him, and lowered their wands. None of the beams of light had connected with Harry, but nonetheless he fell into darkness.

Hanging in the sky and glowing bright in emerald, the skull was both the last and – inexplicably – the worst thing he saw that night. He didn't know what it was, but it filled him with a strange sense of foreboding. His last thought before he fell unconscious was that somehow the skull was making his scar prickle again. Perhaps it was hurting. He couldn't tell – everything else was in a sort of numb agony, too. It quickly faded, and there was nothing left.


	2. Bedsheet Memories

He was cold. Too cold. Harry shivered, feeling the press of linen against his body. When his eyes opened, he saw white walls and a row of spartan beds. The hospital wing hadn't changed a bit since last year. He could hear Madam Pomfrey in the distance, bustling about straightening bed sheets and plumping pillows. Idly, he wondered what the point was. School wasn't starting for another week. Most of the pupils would be at the world cup right now, like he was – he sat up, suddenly, and tried to speak. His throat was dry, and only a harsh spluttering came out, but it was enough to draw Hogwarts' resident Healer's attention.

"Lie down," exclaimed Madam Pomfrey, reminding Harry of nearly every time he had been in this same room. She would always make sure that he was back to full health before letting him go, and she did a fine job of patching him up after his various escapes, but she was overbearing almost to the point at which he would willingly walk on a broken leg for three days before coming to see her. Almost. He wondered if she was close to Molly Weasley. Exchange her cooking for Pomfrey's curing, and the two women were very alike.

Harry tried to ask why he was here, at Hogwarts, when he'd been attacked so far away, but the words couldn't make their way past his dry throat. Pomfrey saw that he wanted to ask a question, but gave the answer to a different one instead. To be fair, it was the one that Harry asked upon waking most of the time when he was in her care. He could remember the first time he had asked, towards the end of his first year. He'd been worried about missing the end-of-year feast, and asked her how long he'd been asleep. "You've been here for five days, dear. Term is starting after the weekend."

With a few noncommittal grunts and a shake of his head, he was able to convey his question. He guessed that after years of working with bedridden students Pomfrey had developed the ability to sometimes understand what they were saying, even if unable to speak. Of course, she had the ability to turn spontaneously deaf when the students had no desire to take their potions, as Harry knew. He had particularly bad memories of a run-in with skele-gro. Snape must have brewed that specially for him, wearing a broad grin the whole time. It was lucky that most potions used by the hospital wing were bought cheaply from the same supplies used by St Mungos. He dreaded to think of the state he'd be in by now if his healthcare was entrusted to Snape's brewing. Chances were that he'd be drinking poison more often than not. "You were just exhausted, and bound to wake up at any time. We didn't know if you'd be up and about in time to catch the train, so you were brought here."

Trying to sit up properly, and not just be propped up on the pillows, Harry met with an expected obstacle in the form of Madam Pomfrey's hand. Her bony fingers pressed into the centre of his chest made quick work of his attempts to rise, pushing him back down.

She gave him her sternest expression, and pulled a small vial of potion out of nowhere. Harry suspected that she carried some variants on the traditional sleep potions around with her everywhere so she could ambush students when business was low. He worried that he was going paranoid at times, but usually his fears came true at about the time he started to believe he was imagining things. Perhaps Madam Pomfrey would be the culprit of the fourth annual plot to do him in. The thought made him laugh to himself, but his mirth was interrupted by a foul tasting liquid being forced down his throat. Soon, he was consumed by the world of sleep.

The sun was high in the sky when Harry woke. A calendar on the wall said that the day was Saturday, emblazoned in vivid purple writing. As he watched, numbers beneath it changed, displaying the time. A shrill voice coming from the calendar had woken him.

"-ven of the clock. Have a pleasant day!" Harry grimaced. His day would be considerably better were it not for an untimely awakening. It was still the holidays – and a weekend. He felt quite strongly about the inappropriate way that clocks had the dual functions of AM and PM. Whoever designed them was wholly deserving of a few well-placed insults. It was probably Snape, he thought darkly.

"About time yeh got up," said Hagrid. Harry jumped, and looked for his oversized friend. He wasn't exactly hard to miss, but he didn't see him until a chuckle came from behind him. "Jumped like a rabbit there. Everythin' alright, Harry? Heard yeh've bin here for a coupla days." Hagrid sat on th bed behind him. Beneath his figure it seemed more like a cushion covered stool than a mattress atop a bed. Thick bandages covered his bulky arms, and a few scratches could be seen on the small part of his face not covered by his unkempt beard. They looked suspiciously like bites. Harry hoped that Hagrid wasn't attempting to raise another dragon – or worse.

"Hagrid! What happened to you?" asked Harry, gesturing towards the worst of the bandages. Hagrid just grinned. Harry had never known him to be fazed by any of the wounds he sustained in dealing with the various creatures around the Hogwarts grounds. Some of them were quite vicious.

"Ahh, it weren't much. Aragog's lot is gettin' restless. He's no feelin' that great, an' more'n a few o' his brood keep wantin' to expand their colony. He's keepin' most of 'em in check, but every now an' then a couple scuttle outta the forest," said Hagrid, standing up. The top of his head came dangerously close to brushing the ceiling, high as it was, and the bed creaked in an alarming manner when his weight left it. "On'y came in here to see how yeh were doin'." Harry looked again at Hagrid's bandages. A sort of yellow-grey pus was seeping from behind one on his forearm, and dark stains showed where blood had been soaking through.

"Hagrid, isn't Acromantula venom poisonous?" asked Harry, remembering an encounter with the eight-legged monsters. It was only through a mixture of luck and an enchanted car that he escaped being bitten himself.

"Nah, it was only a little 'un. Couldn'ta been more'n seven, eight feet legspan. They don't get really deadly until they're past ten." Harry stared at Hagrid, gobsmacked. No matter how many times he had seen Hagrid's love for the furry and fanged, he was still surprised by his ability to overlook his bestial companions' terrifying nature. Anyone sane would consider one of his so-called pets to be very different from his opinion of them as cuddly. "Not tha' I'll have much time for Aragog this year, what wi' everythin' that's happening."

Harry remembered how shifty the elder Weasleys had been acting at the Burrow. They had been dropping a number of steady hints that something was going to happen this year at Hogwarts. It was only through Percy's obeisant attitude that Ludo Bagman had been prevented from telling him, Ron, and Hermione outright at the world cup.

"What's happening this year?"

After a long pause, Hagrid gave in, and shrugged. With that ungainly motion, he accidently knocked over a vase standing on the bedside table. Harry winced when it shattered on the floor.

"I s'pose it won't do any harm to tell yeh now. The Triwizard Tournament is bein' brought back."

"What's that?"

"Well, there's these three tasks, see," said Hagrid. "And in 'em the champions are gonna have to –" He broke off suddenly, seeing Dumbledore standing in the doorway, looking amused. He strode over to Harry, and clapped a hand on his shoulder, blue eyes twinkling.

"Don't give away all our secrets now, Rubeus. There's no fun in spoiling the surprise before time."

"Sorry professor, I was jus' tellin' Harry what the tournament is, see?"

"I see. Perhaps I can explain that a little better, hmm? Just wait a few days until the feast and I'll be telling everyone. Can you wait that long, Harry?" Harry was completely unabashed by his obvious attempt to wheedle information out of Hagrid.

"But what _is_ it, Professor?" he asked, eager to know more. Dumbledore smiled, peering at Harry over his half-moon glasses.

"I believe that the official word of the Ministry is that the Triwizard Tournament is an event designed to – what did they say? – Ahh, yes. To promote international co-operation and goodwill among witches and wizards of all ages. Personally, I'm under the impression that Ludo Bagman was bored and fancied dabbling his hand in something other than Quidditch, but to each his own. It should be a nice change of pace from normal. I'm sure you'll enjoy the events we have planned." Harry looking derailed for a moment, having gained yet another of Dumbledore's vague answers. The man was adept at not letting slip anything more than he wished. A pity he wasn't so easy to get things out of as Hagrid.

"What?"

"We'll be having some visitors this year, Harry." Harry opened his mouth to ask more, but Dumbledore interrupted him before he had the chance. "Enough about the future – we mustn't neglect the present. How are you feeling?" He was about to automatically answer, but Dumbledore shook his head. "How are you really feeling?"

Harry tried to think back, but most of the time since he'd passed out in the woods had been time spent asleep. Despite that, he felt as if he should still be sleeping. His limbs were heavy and stiff, as if he'd been exercising heavily all day.

"A bit...stiff," said Harry. Dumbledore nodded. Harry wasn't sure where this was going – he thought that it was only natural to be a bit rigid after spending so much time in bed, but Dumbledore seemed to be reading something more into it.

"No wonder, by the looks of you," said Dumbledore. "You've grown a lot over the summer." Harry shook his head. He couldn't be more than half an inch taller than he had been at the end of his third year. He had always been short and skinny for his age, and didn't expect that to ever change.

"Not really," said Harry. Dumbledore only relied by pointing at a mirror beside the bed. Harry stood, and moved half a pace towards it. "I was still nearly a head shorter than Ron when –" His voice faded, and he stared at his reflection. He still wasn't as tall as Ron, but the difference wasn't very big. He gave Dumbledore a quizzical look, and the headmaster returned it with a faint smile.

"I don't think you will be much shorter now. Tell me, when you encountered the veela, did they use their rather unique ability on you?"

Harry couldn't remember much about his time in front of the veela. At the cup itself, he could remember a desire to impress them, and a need to do something that really stood out. Within the clearing was an entirely different matter. Everything was so intense, so powerful, and so confusing. He felt a stray tickle in the back of his mind, and things started sliding into place. He had felt nothing more than a desire – a need – and an urge to protect them. In that moment, they were more precious than anything else. He couldn't really understand why he had felt that way, despite knowing that it was the effect of the veela. It was just too much to take in.

"You mean their charm?" he asked.

"That's one way to put it, yes," said Dumbledore. It was an understatement, Harry thought, but feelings like that, so intense, could not be put into words. Neither love nor lust, it was something else. Something deeper, and darker, buried in the crevasses of his mind, in places where he had not gone before.

"They did." Harry came back from the mirror, and sat on the side of his bed, smoothing the white linen coverlets. He was tired of these sterile beds in the hospital wing, and made up his mind to leave as soon as he got the chance. He wanted to be back in the Gryffindor tower. The dormitory there was the only place where he had ever really felt to be in his own room, no matter that he shared it with four others.

"It seems to have had a considerably exaggerated effect on you, Harry. Your extreme overexposure to such strong emotions triggered a burst of hormones that, well, accelerated certain physical properties of your growth." The aging headmaster's expression was still fairly jovial, and eyes twinkled behind his glasses. Harry had rarely seen him with a truly serious expression – and of those few times, most had been in this same room, when he was supposed to be asleep. He thought that the safety of his students was one of two things that the headmaster took seriously – that and Lord Voldemort.

"I...I don't..."

"Understand? Of course not. In layman's terms, you grew older in a short span of time. You've been asleep because your body simply didn't have the energy for you to stay awake." Having heard of nothing whatsoever like this ever happening before, Harry accepted Dumbledore's words. This was his fourth year in the magical world, and every year the thing that he learned over and over again was that he knew far less than he could about magic. The only impossibility he'd found so far was for things to be impossible.

"So...I'm not fourteen any more?" It sounded too bizarre to be true – but Harry had heard of aging potions, and knew that magic could do strange things if channelled in the right ways. Especially when he was involved.

"No, you're not. Not just fourteen." He did wonder how old he was, but Dumbledore pre-empted his question. "I would say that your body is that of a fifteen year old. Perhaps even sixteen. As far as your mental age goes, I couldn't comment. You'll probably be a little older up here than many of your classmates, but with Miss Granger for company, I'm sure that your friends won't see that as a bad thing. Even were you my age, I doubt you'd be able to surpass her in terms of maturity." The headmaster stopped speaking, and his eyes took on their characteristic twinkle. "Which may or may not be a bad thing." Harry stifled a laugh. Despite being the oldest person he knew, Dumbledore often seemed younger than many of Harry's fellow students.

Hagrid fidgeted beside Harry, and Dumbledore's faint smile grew a little in amusement. Despite the fact that he was now a teacher at the school, Hagrid still thought of Dumbledore of an omniscient figurehead of authority, and himself as an errant schoolboy. He was still naive in many ways, but he was a good friend. He had been the one to rescue Harry from the Dursleys, and that had never been forgotten.

"Is that going to be a problem?" If he was really older, there were a hundred different ways that it could become troublesome. He hoped that he wouldn't have to move up a year to keep up with his appearance. Some of the spells he had seen fifth years performing were far above the standard he could cast at. In transfiguration he hadn't even begun attempting to turn a hedgehog into a pincushion. Even Fred and George had been transfiguring raccoons for a while now.

"No, not at all. If anything, you'll find schoolwork a tad easier, and your magic may be more powerful." Harry let out a relieved breath. This might not be a bad thing. A few benefits of being a little older were lurking around in the corners of his mind. "Perhaps not by a huge amount, but it may give you an advantage in a few simple spells. Best to put it out of your mind, I would say."

"Alright. I can do that."

With a swish of his robes, Dumbledore turned to leave the hospital wing, leaving behind him a slightly confused Harry, and a mildly agitated Hagrid.

"Good day, Harry, Rubeus." Hagrid cleared his throat, making a noise like a creaking sawhorse, and Harry noticed his awkward, fidgeting stance.

"Could I have a word Professor?" asked Hagrid. Harry then knew what he wanted. He'd always been hesitant to ask for help, preferring to be the one to offer it. It was a sentiment that Harry shared.

"Of course," said Dumbledore, gesturing for Hagrid to join him. The two walked out of the room together, Hagrid's voice a low rumble that Harry could still hear clearly as they walked away until they turned a corner, and vanished from sight.

"These Acromantula, see? There's gettin' to be far too many of 'em for the forest. I was thinkin' tha' maybe we could see about gettin' some moved into a new home where there'd be more room for 'em. Not in their nature to be confined, and having 'em try to expand their territory will cause a lotta trouble for the other creatures in there."

When Hagrid's voice had completely faded away, Harry lay back on the bed, staring at the plaster ceiling. He had a lot to think about.

A little while later, he had given up trying to understand what had happened to him, and started wondering why his spell had been so unusual. His patronus had been...different. Somehow strange. Harry thought back to his lessons with Lupin, and struggled to recall any mention of a darker kind of patronus. On the other hand, Lupin hadn't really said much about a patronus taking on a physical shape, either. Maybe that was just the next step up from the patronus he had cast by the lake last year, to protect Sirius.

Harry frowned. Perhaps that was the connection. He had cast that patronus to protect his godfather, and the strange one to protect the veela. A patronus was supposed to be a protector, after all, and as a guardian, it stood to reason that it would be more powerful when it had a greater need to protect. He thought about it for a while; every patronus he had ever conjured had been to protect someone, even when it was just himself. He resolved to ask someone about it as soon as he got the chance. There seemed to be something more to his magic guardian than a spell to drive Dementors away.

His thoughts were interrupted by Madam Pomfrey coming over, a tray covered in bottles held before her. Harry winced at the sight of it. He didn't want any more potions. There was nothing wrong with him – he just wanted to get out of this bed.

"Now then, how are we feeling?" she asked, setting the tray down on his bedside table. He tried not to eye it warily.

"Tired of sitting here. Can I go?" Pomfrey clicked her tongue disapprovingly, and Harry resigned himself to another night in the hospital wing. She saw his disappointed expression, and gave in.

"Oh, all right," said the school Healer, pouring a thin stream of viscous liquid into a small metal cup. Harry began to wonder why it had to be metal, and then decided he didn't want to know. Better just to swallow it and hope that it wasn't anything unpleasant. "Be sure to drink this before you go."

Harry took the cup from her, and waited for her to pick the tray up, and move away. He sniffed at it suspiciously, and eyed the contents. Colourless and odourless, it could be anything from truth serum to water. Pomfrey turned back to face him. Sometimes she seemed to have an instinct for when he wasn't taking his medicine.

"You could stay here, if you prefer," she said, threateningly. He tried not to swallow it too hurriedly, and pulled a face. The sharp taste burned his tongue and left a grimy feeling on his teeth, as if he hadn't brushed them in days. Which, he realized, he hadn't.

The nearest bathroom was up on the second floor. He just hoped that its regular occupant was not at home. The bathrooms were kept supplied with a good number of toothbrushes and all the usual dental cleaning equipment – all of muggle make, of course. Not that anyone recognized it, with the exception of the muggleborn students. Harry suspected that Dumbledore had begun supplying them with these items so alien to the wizarding world for the sake of making them feel at home. Like Harry, most muggleborn students preferred to brush their teeth properly than to use the quick spells practised by most witches and wizards. Harry had always felt that his teeth weren't cleaned properly if he cheated and used a spell. Besides, he liked to really scrub away the grim at times like this. The effect might be the same as the spell's, but it made his mouth feel a lot fresher.

Pushing the door open a crack, Harry thought that his luck was in. No pools of water covered the floor, and there were no doors being slammed open and shut. Myrtle was nowhere to be seen. Of course, being a ghost, that meant nothing. He edged over to the row of sinks – making sure to stay away from the one with tiny snakes on the taps – and began to brush his teeth.

"You haven't been to see me in _ages_!" Almost choking, Harry swallowed a mouthful of foamy water, and spluttered indignantly, tiny drops of water appearing in the corner of his eyes. The aftertaste of the potion was bad enough, but coupled with minty water hitting the back of his throat; it felt as if he had swallowed a handful of chilli peppers whole. He rinsed his mouth out before answering, wishing, not for the first time, that ghosts at least made the noise of footsteps.

"Myrtle! Don't sneak up on me like that."

The bathroom's resident ghost pouted. On a normal girl it might have looked endearing – cute, even, but on the ghost it was a little disconcerting.

"I'm sorry. But I've been so..." She flew overhead, and settled on the wall of one of the cubicle doors, fiddling with a plait hanging down beyond her shoulders. "Lonely. You promised you'd come see me sometimes!"

"I will this year, I promise." Harry hesitated, not wanting to upset her. He knew how touchy the ghost could be, and didn't want his feet soaked in a rising layer of icy water. "I just had a lot on my mind last year." He waited a moment, hoping that she wouldn't call his bluff, and blinked in surprise when she let out a small giggle.

"I like your clothes, Harry," said Myrtle. Harry looked in the mirror set above the sink, and flushed. He berated himself for it – she wasn't even a real girl! It only seemed to encourage her, and the giggles continued. He was still wearing one of the overlarge nightshirts from the hospital wing, and resolved to find a change of clothes as soon as possible. His trunk was always brought up from the train at the start of term; maybe it was already in his dormitory, since he had arrived early? He certainly hoped so.

He left the bathroom as soon as his teeth were free of their slimy covering, his pace quicker than normal, and Myrtle's laughter still ringing in his ears. The cold flagstones in the corridor outside seemed chillier than before, and when he looked down, he saw that he was wearing no shoes. He really did need to get to the Gryffindor tower soon. Even if his trunk wasn't there, at least the common room had a carpeted floor and a fire.

His feet were chunks of blocky ice by the time he reached the portrait of the Fat Lady. He stood before her, and tried to remember the password from last year. She shook her head, not unkindly.

"Sorry, but you'll need the new password to get in," said the Fat Lady. Harry sighed, wondering what to do. "I'd try Professor McGonagall if I were you. She's the one who sets them, after all."

His head of house's office was not too far away, but Harry's feet were aching by the time he reached it. It was ever so slightly ajar, but he knocked carefully on the door jamb anyway. A tabby cat sauntered out, peering up at him. It turned, and went back into the office, pushing the door open wider to let Harry in. It was as good an invitation as he was going to get. The cat leapt up onto the chair set behind the desk, and its features expanded outwards, forming the stern-looking Transfiguration professor.

"And just what are you doing here, Potter?" she asked, taking her hat from on top of the desk and placing it over her steel-grey bun.

"I was in the hospital wing, and –" Professor McGonagall cut in, talking over Harry. It was something she was fond of doing, and yet would bite the nose off any student who dared to interrupt her. Most teachers were a bit like that, in Harry's experience, but at least McGonagall was one of the fairer ones. She didn't play favourites, or dock points for nothing at all, although she would not hold back on punishment for her Gryffindors any more than she would for the other houses. Then again, she washed her hair from time to time. The difference, Harry thought, was all in the grease.

"Yes, yes, I know why you're at Hogwarts," said the professor "But why are you _here_, in my office?" Her gaze met Harry's unflattering attire, and he shifted uneasily. It wasn't his fault that he had been trussed up in this outsized nightshirt against his will. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Madam Pomfrey let me go," said Harry, wishing yet again that he at least had a set of robes and shoes to wear. "And I was trying to get into the tower to get some clothes, but I don't know the new password."

"Balderdash." Harry blinked, momentarily taken aback.

"I'm sorry?"

McGonagall tapped her fingers on the desk irritably, and Harry noticed the odd shape of her nails. They curved inwards a little, just like a cat's claws.

"It's the password."

"Oh," said Harry, feeling stupid. He made as if to leave, but the Transfiguration professor called him back, and pulled a slip of paper from a desk drawer, which she handed to him.

"This is your class schedule for this year. Make sure that you do not lose it. And I hope that you'll be able to improve your grade in my lessons soon. If you continue as you have been, you may not even scrape an Acceptable in your OWL." Harry winced. He knew that he didn't pay as much attention in class as he should, but had never thought that he was in danger of failing – Divination and History of Magic exempted, of course, along with Potions. Oh, and Care of Magical Creatures. Hagrid's lessons were very entertaining, but Harry wasn't sure whether some of the beasts he introduced them to were relevant to the exam. With a sinking realization, Harry recognized just how far below par his academic life was.

"I didn't realize how far behind I was," said Harry, wondering if he'd be able to catch up even with Hermione's help.

"No doubt. I'm sure that you'll be able to pick up the pace this year, as Quidditch won't be consuming quite so much time." Startled, Harry simply stared at her, wondering if she was proposing to remove him from the team. He was not the best student, but the Weasley twins were on the team too, and they were far worse. He opened his mouth to complain, but shut it again when McGonagall continued speaking. "Due to certain events taking place, the Quidditch pitch will not be accessible for much of the year."

"You mean the tournament?" asked Harry. McGonagall gave him a stern look, and Harry remembered that he wasn't supposed to know about it yet.

"Yes. How, may I ask, did you – no matter; you have a habit of knowing things that you shouldn't. Might I suggest that you make the most of this opportunity to catch up with your studies? There will be some...irregular lessons taking place that I could place you into. The majority of the other students are a little older than you, but that won't be a problem."

Harry wondered if she was talking about his new condition for a moment, curious to see if Dumbledore had been sharing his speculation. "How much do you know about the tournament?"

"Nothing, really. Only that's it's supposed to be about international friendship...or magical co-operation...or something," said Harry. McGonagall nodded.

"Three schools, as the name suggests, participate in the tournament, each selecting a representative who – well, Professor Dumbledore will explain things when the rest of the school arrives. One of the other schools, Beauxbatons, is situated in France, and has a rather different system of exams than we do. They do not sit OWLs, only a single set of exams similar to NEWTs, after six years rather than the Hogwarts seven. A large portion of their sixth year is taken up by revision sessions, where they go over material from previous years. The students from Beauxbatons will be taking these sessions during the time that they stay at Hogwarts for the tournament. I can arrange for you to attend the appropriate lessons, covering material up to and including the spellwork that we will begin working on this year, if you so wish."

Harry considered the offer. He didn't want to fall out of Hogwarts – it was the only home he had, and after a taste of magical life he could not bear to return to the Dursleys. He knew that Hagrid's wand had been snapped when he was expelled. If the same happened to him, he would have no way of using magic to escape.

"I guess...I could give it a go," said Harry. He felt a bit apprehensive at the thought of being taught with a group of foreign students that might not even be able to speak English well. It wouldn't be as bad as having to endure lessons alone with the Slytherins, but it wasn't a pleasant prospect.

"There is one other student who will be joining you. I haven't heard from him personally, but his grandmother assures me that he's willing to attend. Personally, I believe that he shouldn't be given a choice, he needs it that much." McGonagall sniffed loudly in disapproval, and began to shuffle some of the papers on her desk. Although he was fairly certain of who it was, Harry decided to check. Being landed with Vincent Crabbe by not checking the fine detail would be worse than a repeat performance of Lockhart.

"Who?"

"Neville Longbottom."

Harry nodded, and was halfway out of the door when the professor next spoke.

"Have you eaten yet, Potter?"

"No, I haven't," said Harry, who had been hoping to find something to chew on at the bottom of his trunk.

"I'm afraid that there are no meals in the Great Hall during the summer, as there as so few of us here. We simply order our food from the kitchens as and when we desire. Do you know where the picture of a bowl of fruit is, on the ground floor? Tickle the pear and it'll let you into the kitchens. Ask the house elves working there and they'll be happy to give you a meal."

Soon, Harry was at the portrait of the Fat Lady once more, and this time she swung open. He'd see his friends in two days, but for now he had the run of the castle. Wondering what he could do to fill his time, he picked his way up the stairs into the familiar sight of his dormitory. He was right – his trunk lay at the bottom of his bed.

Once he had dressed, and the cold was no longer distracting him, Harry's stomach began to rumble. The kitchens seemed very appealing right now.


	3. Bubblegum Feathers

_A/N: Sorry about the long wait on this chapter, everybody. Real life has been overwhelming lately, and...ah, screw the excuses. Here's the next chapter. I'll get the next out a bit faster, if I can. Feedback is always welcome, and thanks to all reviewers - special thanks to_ darklordmike _for his suggestions and recommendations about the tournament._

* * *

The pear let out a soft giggle when Harry tickled it, and the portrait swung open just as the Fat Lady did. Stepping through a stone archway behind the frame, Harry gaped at the sight, sound, and smell of the kitchens. They assailed his every sense, from the heady aroma of roasting meat to the sight of dozens of house elves scurrying to and fro, kitchen implements and platters of food both raw and cooked clutched in their hands. He heard their high-pitched voices calling out across the kitchen, and could almost taste some of the food being prepared already. His stomach gave a low gurgle, and a squeal came from across the room.

"Harry Potter sir!"

Harry wheezed as something rammed into him, winding him more from surprise than force. The thing didn't move, and Harry had to pry its long fingers loose from around him.

"Dobby? Could you...let go? You're crushing me," said Harry, speaking through clenched teeth. The house elf released him hurriedly, and its ears drooped.

"Dobby is sorry! He was just glad to be seeing Harry Potter," said Dobby. Despite his wilting ears, the elf looked ridiculously happy, beaming at Harry with a grin that split his face in two. "Dobby wanted to visit Harry Potter when he heard he was at Hogwarts, but Professor Dumbledore told Dobby not to seek Harry Potter out because he might not be wanting to see Dobby."

A good thing too, Harry thought, considering how every other encounter with Dobby had ended in disaster. Another house elf trotted up, and squeaked at his elbow.

"Can we be getting you anything, sir?"

Harry looked from Dobby to the second elf, and noticed yet another strange thing about Dobby. His clothes. The elf wore what looked like a mismatched assortment of items from a dozen different outfits, some shrunk down to his size. He even wore a tie, loosely knotted over a bare chest.

"Erm...could you get me something to eat?" he asked, and the elf bowed, scurrying away quickly. His eyes were still riveted on Dobby, but Harry noticed out of the corner of his eye how the other tried to avoiding looking at him more than it had to, as if the overdressed elf was something to be ashamed of. "What are you doing here Dobby?"

The elf's ears perked up at the question, and he answered eagerly.

"Professor Dumbledore was kind enough to give Dobby a job! Not many wizards would be employing Dobby, since Dobby is wanting paid now, but when Dobby visited Winky and saw she was free too, Dobby thought Winky could get work with him! The only place Dobby knows where there is work enough for two house elves is Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore is a great wizard, just like Harry Potter!" said Dobby. Harry flinched at the onslaught on his ears. The elf's speech was rushed and excitable, but Harry was able to pick out a few words.

He remembered an elf named Winky – she had been with him at the Quidditch world cup, covering her face in fear of the height and saving a seat for the master that did not show up, Barty Crouch. As Dobby said her name, he pointed to an elf that Harry had not noticed before, huddled on a stool in the corner. Her large eyes were rimmed with red, and she, too, wore clothes. Much neater than Dobby's, her outfit was a matching blue skirt and blouse, but it had not been taken care of. Burns and stains covered the lightly-coloured fabric.

"Why was Winky freed?" asked Harry. Winky began to sob loudly – she had heard him, and Dobby's beaming expression faded.

"Winky is a bad house elf," said Winky, huddling herself in eyes, the size of golf balls, crinkled up and tears began to form. Dobby looked mortified, and triedto shush her.

"Bad wizards said that Winky made a bad sign in the sky with a wand," he said, and Hary's interest rose. He asked the elf to continue as Winky's sobs grew louder. "Winky was hiding from bad wizards, and she picked up a stolen wand that one of them dropped. It was Harry Potter's Wheezy's wand! His orange wheezy."

Harry blinked uncertainly. What was a wheezy? He wasn't sure f he owned one, or if he wanted to admit to it if he did.

"My...what? Wheezy?"

Dobby nodded, making frantic gestures for Winky to be quiet.

"Harry Potter's friend the orange wheezy who sleeps in Harry Potter's room at school," said the elf. Realization dawned on Harry, and he wished, not for the first time, that the elf would speak normally.

"Ron? He did lose his wand at the cup, when the Death Eaters were attacking the camp," said Harry.

Dobby nodded again, and Winky stopped her sobbing for a moment, looking at Harry with a fearful expression.

"Bad wizard who picked up the wand made the sign of bad wizards like Dobby's old master in the sky." Dobby froze, and rushed over to the wall. Solid thumps punctuated squeals of "Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!" as it hit its head against the wall, until Harry pulled him back.

"Dobby should punish himself for saying bad things about his master," squeaked Winky, before bursting into tears again, and wailing louder than ever.

"Thank you Harry Potter," said Dobby. He ran back over to Winky, and tried to quiet her again. The house elf who had offered Harry something to eat appeared again, holding a silver tray. A mixture of various cold meats and thinly sliced bread decorated the tray, arranged in an intricate pattern, like in the very expensive restraints that the Dursleys occasionally went to, celebrating a bonus at Vernon's work. Harry, naturally, was left with Mrs Figg and a lingering smell of cats to eat at these times, but on the few occasions that she was unavailable, he was forced to sit with them, not eating anything save for a few slices of bread that Dudley chose to leave. They were often generous enough to order him a drink. Tap water was fine by him, or so they said.

"Would Harry Potter sir like a drink?"

Harry said that he would, and the elf pulled him away from Winky's outburst. He wondered why the elf wasn't simply bringing something over to him, but after a quick glance around the kitchens he began to see why. Many of the elves had paused in their work to regard Winky with something akin to embarrassment – they didn't want Harry to see her making such a spectacle of herself.

"Miss Tonks the Nymph is through here," said the elf, gesturing at a sturdy oak door. "Would sir like to drink with Miss?"

Harry blinked, taken aback by the sudden statement. He tried to work his way through the convoluted speech that all house elves used, but only confused himself more. Was there a nature spirit visiting Hogwarts? Or, even more outlandish, had the elves mastered the subtle science and exact art of innuendo?

"I guess?" he said, not entirely sure of what he was volunteering himself for. When the elf ushered him in through the door, he saw a small round table surrounded by four chairs. One of them was occupied by a young woman that seemed normal enough – until Harry saw her turquoise hair. He blamed the after-effects of the veela for the fact that it wasn't her head that he looked at first. With his hormones in overdrive, even worse than the average teenager, and then someone of the fairer gender sprung on him without any real warning, Harry didn't feel like he could be blamed for his wandering gaze. Lucky she hadn't noticed.

She gave Harry a knowing grin, and leaned forward, as if to say something. He couldn't help but let his eyes flicker downwards again.

"Keep your eyes up here or I'll get rid of them," she said. A tinge of pink flushed across Harry's cheeks – apparently she had noticed. He tried to suppress the oncoming blush, but didn't have much success.

"You'll gouge my eyes out? That seems a bit extreme."

"Nope," she replied happily. "I'll do something far worse. I'm a metamorphmagus. I can change the shape of my body if I want to and make _them_ go away." The implications of what she was saying sank in, and Harry widened his eyes in mock horror.

"So...you're not a nymph?"

She glared at him for a few awkward moments. Harry shifted uncomfortably on his feet, and she relented, pushing a chair out with his foot.

"You'll give me a crick in my neck looking up like that. Get down here." He sat down, but didn't speak, waiting for an answer. She sighed and put down a small glass beaker, dropping it onto the table where it landed with a soft chink. "My first name is Nymphadora, but if you call me that I will gut you. With a spoon."

"Miss Tonks the Nymph."

"Right, call me that."

"Nymph?" Tonks glared at Harry again, but he just gave a faint smile in return – a smile that bordered on the edge of a smirk.

"Call me Tonks, kid."

"Call me Harry, Nymph," he replied. Her eyes gave the customary flicker up to his scar, and it was his turn to sigh in exasperation. "Shall we just agree not to ogle one another?" suggested Harry. She shook her head, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

"Oh no, I couldn't turn away the Boy-Who-Lived. I get to look at your scar as much as I want, and in exchange..." Her voice trailed off suggestively, and Harry felt his cheeks burning. She began to laugh softly, a pleasant, lilting sound. To Harry's relief, the door shot open. The house elf from before bustled through, holding a large silver tray in both hands.

"Pumpkin juice for Miss Tonks the Nymph and Harry Potter sir!" he squeaked cheerfully.

A frightened yelp quickly shot through the air, followed by the deafening screech of the tray shattering. Harry gaped at Tonks, who had risen and cast _something _so quickly that he hadn't seen her move. Part of him noticed the interesting things that her heavy breathing did to her body, but far more of his attention was occupied by the brightly coloured lights flashing out of the end of her wand. The doorframe splintered when the lights impacted, causing a cloud of dust to envelop the room.

Harry covered his mouth and struggled to hold back a coughing fit. From the other side of the table he could hear Tonks spluttering in a mixture of outrage and disgust. Through the dust, he could see a diminutive silhouette fleeing back into the relative safety of the kitchens.

By the time that the dust had begun to settle, Harry was watching Tonks with an expression of awe. She turned to him and returned his look with one of deadly severity. Red highlights had begun to appear in her hair, and her eyes were narrowed.

"No bloody elf is calling me a nymph," she growled, stabbing her wand emphatically into a pocket. Harry chuckled lightly, and a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Of course not."

Tonks sat down rather grumpily and shook her head. When the flying strands settled again about her head, they had changed to a shade of bubblegum pink.

"Metamorphmagus, huh?" said Harry, under his breath. Tonks didn't seem to hear, and filled a small glass on the table, keeping the bottle for herself. She nodded towards the glass, and Harry took it. At her unspoken command – a raised eyebrow, and an air of anticipation – he raised it to his lips and swallowed.

Before the liquid inside had reached the back of his throat, Harry knew that had been a mistake. A burning warmth poured through his throat and mouth, making his eyes water. He struggle not to choke, and spluttered heavily. Tonks looked on and snickered to herself.

"No better way of clearing your sinuses than that," she said. Harry took a moment to collect himself before answering, sniffing the remains of the liquid apprehensively.

"What was that?"

"You never had firewhiskey before?"

This woman was a little odd, Harry thought. He shook his head, and her perpetual half-smile deepened. After a few moments, she hadn't looked away. Harry began to feel a little awkward, and a slight warmth rose in his cheeks. Tonks seemed to notice his discomfort, and snickered again.

She really was rather pretty when she laughed.

The platter of food brought by the house elf soon disappeared, thanks to the combined efforts of Harry and Tonks. Harry adamantly refused to take any more firewhiskey, but Tonks' mischievous teasing soon had him relenting. He tipped back the bottle, and let the sharp liquid pour down his throat, struggling not to cough it up again.

"Now all I need is to go fall off my broom and this day will be perfect," grumbled Harry, under his breath. For some reason, he loathed the feelings of inadequacy that rose around Tonks, regardless of how much he was enjoying her company. If anything, he was half-tempted to do something impressive and noteworthy, instead of just sitting there.

"What broom d'you have?"

Harry jumped a little in surprise, not realising that she'd heard him. He opened his mouth to reply, when another realisation struck him. Quidditch! Sure, he was ungainly on the ground at times, but nobody could deny his skill on a broom. Maybe that would impress Tonks, and – he shook himself mentally, wondering why he wanted so desperately to show off.

"I'll show you," he said, climbing to his feet. She raised her eyebrows and stood to follow him. Harry grabbed Tonks' hand, and pulled her towards the door, trying not to seem too eager. He made it almost out of the kitchens before he noticed what he was doing. Blushing furiously, he tried to drop her hand, but Tonks squeezed hers tighter, lacing her fingers through his.

Harry glanced at her, and promptly looked away upon seeing the expression of evil glee on Tonks' face. He was right; she was enjoying his discomfort. Vile woman. He wished he could bring himself to dislike her, but to no avail. Harry settled for promising himself the aid of the Weasley twins in bringing her down. He tried to force down his embarrassment and regain some of his dignity by talking normally.

"Tonks? What are you doing at Hogwarts, anyway?"

"Ehhh." Tonks rubbed her eyes sleepily in an overdramatic manner. "Too much work so I needed a break, and signed up for a nice easy job. After what happened at the world cup, the Minister decided that it would be a good idea for someone to keep an eye on the school, just in case the Death Eaters decide to come out an' play."

"What exactly are Death Eaters? I mean, I know that they're Malfoy's lot of purebloods, and they're rubbish in a duel, but –"

"You duelled a Death Eater," interrupted Tonks, with a short flat statement. It wasn't a question, just an expression of disbelief. Harry scowled. He was tired of everyone underestimating him, all the time.

"Were you at the Quidditch world cup?"

Tonks narrowed her eyebrows, and playfully cuffed Harry on the side of his head.

"Don't try to change the subject," she said. Harry clasped a hand over her mouth in irritation, preventing her from speaking further.

"Were you there? Or at the Death Eater attack?"

Tonks nodded, her mock-glare replaced by a glimmer of amusement shining in her eyes. Harry began to worry – it couldn't be healthy for him – but pushed on resolutely.

"A few of them went after me and my friends, and...I had to deal with it. Not everyone there was a witch or wizard, so..."

Harry trailed off, lost in memory. He could remember the anger and hate, and the desire to kill. He shuddered a little, both out of loathing and love for what he was feeling. As terrible as it was, he could feel himself revel in the darkness welling up inside him, and take joy in the spray of blood and terror in the night air. He remembered the look of shock and fear on the Death Eaters' faces, and –

Something warm and wet pressed against his hand, knocking Harry out of his reverie. He pulled the hand quickly away from Tonks, who was making small noises of amusement.

"You licked my hand!" exclaimed Harry. She winked at him, and squeezed their joined hands together.

"It worked, didn't it? I wasn't planning on using you as a gag for much longer."

Harry gave up. She was too much for him to understand. It was far better just to take things in his stride and try his best not to fall over in shock the next time she did something completely unexpected. He just hoped that his cheeks would stop burning sometime soon after all of her endless teasing.

The remnants of the memory faded quickly, but one feeling lingered. The strange desire to impress the veela had remained – and Harry realised that it had been there for all the time he had been speaking to Tonks. She quirked an eyebrow again, as if to ask what Harry was thinking.

"You aren't a veela, are you?"

Her incredulous laughter echoed in the kitchens long after they were gone. Harry could have sworn he heard an elf muttering under its breath as Tonks dragged him out.

"Bloody humans."

o0o0o0o

"Firebolt."

"Yup."

"_Fire_bolt."

"Yup."

"_Firebolt!"_

"Want to see if she lives up to her reputation?"

Tonks turned puppy-dog eyes on Harry, and bit her lower lip. Behind her head, her hair rearranged itself into a pair of short blonde pigtails, and she nodded, doing her best to be cute. Harry watched in amazement as she shrank to the size of a tiny girl, and hugged his leg, nodding furiously all the time.

A little hand tugged at his robes, pulling him down. Harry crouched so his head was level with Tonks', giving her a suspicious look.

"Pweeeaaaase Mister Hawwy?"

Harry tried very hard to resist the urge to curse the ineffably cute midget. Not trusting himself to speak without bursting out laughing or crying at such a sight, he simply nodded. Tonks changed back into her normal form, her hair a sky blue, and he sighed in relief. He found the whole thing a horrific mix of nauseating and, though he would never admit it, cute.

"Never do that to me again," he demanded, unable to glare properly, but settling for jabbing his wand into the base of Tonks' neck. She looked at him innocently, and he relented.

Harry held out the broom for her, idly reminiscing about past Quidditch.

"Maybe I'll be a worse seeker now that I'm so much bigger," mumbled Harry, speaking more to himself than to Tonks.

"Eh?" she interrupted. Harry tried to think of a reasonable explanation for recent events, but couldn't find a way of explaining things to himself, let alone to someone else.

"Dumbledore said I grew a lot over the summer," he said at last. Tonks shook her head.

"Harry...I don't know how to tell you this, but..."

"What?"

Tonks looked away, biting her lower lip again.

"You're a shortarse."

Harry pulled out his wand, and waved it threateningly in Tonks' direction. She gave an evil cackle, and stole his firebolt. The air whistled around her as she kicked off the ground, hovering just above Harry's head, out of his reach, and pausing long enough to show him her favourite finger.

"Bitch!"

"Midget!"

"Nymph!"

Pushing aside the desire to heckle Tonks further, Harry took her broom, wishing that he'd held onto his own, faster, bundle of charms and twigs. She fled, calling obscenities over her shoulder, with Harry in close pursuit.

He clutched the handle of her unfamiliar broom, pushing his body as close to it as he could. Wood had lectured him time and time again on the importance of streamlining himself when chasing the snitch. Firebolt or no, it was never a good idea to pass up an advantage, and every tiny little burst of speed was one step closer to winning the cup. Even though he was playing professionally since leaving Hogwarts, Harry's old team captain would come to the school in person to ream him out if he let someone who didn't even play Quidditch out-fly him.

Throwing his weight sharply to one side, Harry rolled on his broom, positioning himself directly underneath Tonks.

"Stop looking up my robes, scarhead!"

Harry flushed, and pulled the broom up further, until it was almost touching his firebolt. Tonks kicked out at him, hitting him in the stomach. He let out a muffled wheeze, and pulled away from her, twisting back around until he was the right way up again.

"Ha-arry, aren't you going to come and get me?"

"I'll knock you out of the sky and dye your hair pink when I catch you, Nymph!"

"How're you gonna catch me? Scrawny little short- oof!"

Harry blinked, and pulled back on his broom, bringing it to a stop, and hovering beside Tonks, who was spluttering indignantly and spitting out small white feathers.

"Stupid...blasted...BIRD!"

A magnificent snowy owl flew in a tight circle around Harry and Tonks, hooting softly. Harry watched her in mingled approval and amusement.

"Hedwig?"

He thought that this, if nothing else, was good reason for owning an owl. Judging from the feathers that Tonks was still picking out of her mouth and hair, Harry's familiar had come to his defence in an admirable manner.

Hedwig splayed her wings out, slowing herself until she was almost hovering in place, and perched neatly on the end of the broom he was riding. She stuck out a leg, and shuffled her feathers. Harry reached out, and unfurled a length of twin and parchment.

"Midair deliveries? Blimey, that's some owl you got there," commented Tonks, having finally gotten rid of all the feathers from her mouth. A few still clung to her hair, but Harry wasn't about to tell her that. He thought it looked rather cute, in a scruffy and humiliating – for her – way.

"Hoot," replied Hedwig. At the sound of her voice, Tonks remembered that she was supposed to be annoyed with the owl, and shot off after her like a bat out of hell on Harry's stolen firebolt.

"Damned bird!"

"Hoot."

"Arggh!"

Harry watched, amazed, as Hedwig somehow managed to outmanoeuvre Tonks, despite the firebolt. Her hair rapidly changed into a vibrant, angry red; a shade that seemed almost alive, flickering between highlights like a flame. It was, he thought, the kind of hair that an attractive Weasley girl might have. For a moment, he found himself regretting that the whole family was made up of boys – and Mrs Weasley.

He wondered who could be writing to him, turning the letter over in his hands, still watching Tonks and Hedwig. When Tonks performed a particularly sloppy turn, and got slapped in the face with a wing, she sprouted thick bristling facial hair that was incredibly unkempt, and reminded Harry of Sirius – Sirius! He had written to him before leaving Privet Drive.

Harry almost dropped the slip of parchment in his haste to unfold it, and quickly scanned the contents.

_Harry –_

_I'm flying north immediately. This news about your scar is the latest in a series of strange rumours that have reached me here. If it hurts again, go straight to Dumbledore – they're saying he's got Mad-Eye out of retirement, which means he's reading the signs, even if no one else is.  
I'll be in touch soon. My best to Ron and Hermione. Keep your eyes open, Harry._

_Sirius_

A bite of alarm rose in his stomach. Sirius couldn't come back to England, to see him; he'd get caught the moment that he put foot to Hogwarts' ground. The search had died down a little – a lot – since last year, but there were still teams of Ministry workers hunting ceaselessly for him. Harry felt a pang of worry for his godfather. As much as he wanted to see him, it simply wasn't possible, even with the Dementors returned to Azkaban. Not yet, anyway.

With a guilty glance at Tonks, still chasing after Hedwig, Harry realized that she was probably part of the team working to catch Sirius. An auror – a dark wizard catcher – and Sirius was the epitome of dark wizards, according to the ministry. She'd mentioned being stationed at Hogwarts. Was it because of Sirius?

Harry felt for a quill, and the realized, stupidly, that he had no ink. A muggle ballpoint pen was still lurking in his back pocket – he must have forgotten to take it out the last time that he'd worn those jeans. He tried using that, but it was an uphill struggle. The hard nib of the pen refused to work with the surface of the parchment. It was too soft, and gave way too easily, almost like cloth. Trying to write in midair without any hard surfaces to rest on did not make it any easier. Eventually, with a lot of effort, Harry managed to scratch out a message, although his handwriting was noticeably worse than his usual atrocious calligraphy.

_Padfoot,_

_It's not worth the risk. Don't worry about me. Hogwarts is as safe as anywhere can be, and it's too early in the term for my yearly brush with death, or Voldemort, or singing dwarves to be a nuisance. What are these rumours? The Quidditch world cup was probably one of them. Did you know I was there? Took out a couple of assholes playing dress-up on your behalf. But what about the rest?  
Who's this Mad-Eye, anyway, and what does Dumbledore want with him?  
Keep in touch, but DON'T come up here. It's not safe._

_Harry_

"What'cha writing?"

Harry jumped at the sound of Tonks' voice. Somehow, she'd caught up with Hedwig while he wasn't looking. His owl was stuffed under one of her arms, looking like an extremely disgruntled teddy bear. He tilted the parchment towards himself, blocking what he'd written from her view. He'd forgotten that Sirius' message was on the other side, and Tonks' eyes narrowed as she quickly read it.

She grabbed for the message, but Hedwig slipped out from under her arm , and pecked at it, holding it in her beak. Tonks tried to yank it back, but Hedwig flew a few feet upwards, out of her reach.

"Hedwig! Take that to Sirius," said Harry, desperate to get it away from Tonks. He sighed in relief as the snowy owl began to wing her way across the horizon, and Tonks didn't give pursuit. Perhaps she thought that the letter wasn't important.

Or that something else was more important, he thought, as she turned her gaze on him. Her normal joviality was all gone.

"Sirius? Sirius _Black?"_

* * *

_A/n: Again, thanks for reading my humble scribbles. _

_Edit: I should point a few things out before anyone else complains; I didn't forget Ginny. Harry did. Think about it; in canon he's hardly aware that she exists at this point, regardless of what happened in CoS. There will be repercussions about the events at the world cup - he's been asleep since then, however. Hard to question someone in a coma. And, last but not least, he's not taking things with canon's simple unquestioning acceptance. He just hasn't really registered that they've happened yet - and I didn't think that filling a chapter with an old man explaining that Harry is going to hell for murder would be particularly interesting. Even if he has a long white beard._


	4. Dusty Sparkles

A/N: I was really surprised by the number of people who didn't read the last little piece of the last chapter properly and complained about it. Come on, I'm trying to prevent Harry from being a moron. Work with me, here!

...

Anyway. Chapter four. Yeah.

This is a first version and I'm probably going to alter it a little, but I thought I'd put it up now rather than next week. My update rate is awful, after all.

* * *

"_What'cha writing?"_

_Harry jumped at the sound of Tonks' voice. Somehow, she'd caught up with Hedwig while he wasn't looking. His owl was stuffed under one of her arms, looking like an extremely disgruntled teddy bear. He tilted the parchment towards himself, blocking what he'd written from her view. He'd forgotten that Sirius' message was on the other side, and Tonks' eyes narrowed as she quickly read it._

_She grabbed for the message, but Hedwig slipped out from under her arm , and pecked at it, holding it in her beak. Tonks tried to yank it back, but Hedwig flew a few feet upwards, out of her reach._

"_Hedwig! Take that to Sirius," said Harry, desperate to get it away from Tonks. He sighed in relief as the snowy owl began to wing her way across the horizon, and Tonks didn't give pursuit. Perhaps she thought that the letter wasn't important._

_Or that something else was more important, he thought, as she turned her gaze on him. Her normal joviality was all gone._

"_Sirius? Sirius Black?"_

Harry shifted nervously on the broom, eyes darting between Tonks and the distant speck that Hedwig made against the sky. He opened his mouth soundlessly, but closed it again. Furiously berating himself for letting her see the letter; for not tucking it away into a pocket, and reading it later; Harry grasped for the first lie he could find, feeble as it was.

"No! I said Severus – it's just a note asking if I can borrow a potions textbook. I'd forgotten to buy mine." Harry almost crossed his fingers, hoping desperately that she would somehow accept the excuse and leave things alone. She rolled her eyes in reply.

"Since when did Snape sign his letters _Sirius_, then? I can read, scarhead. Want to tell me why you're playing the pen pal game with my wayward cousin?"

Harry stared – cousin? He didn't know that Sirius had a cousin. Hell, that practically made her family, although he had no idea what he'd call her. A godcousin once removed? A second cousin in-law? His mouth worked faster than his brain, and he said the closest thing to an intelligible remark that he could manage.

"What?"

"I always thought that it was confused and slightly slutty teenage girls who went for the dark and mysterious older men," continued Tonks, seemingly oblivious to Harry's mounting confusion. She narrowed her eyes, and peered intently at him.

"I –"

"It's not as if he's even that good looking. All those years in Azkaban have left him looking like a piece of dried up old beef jerky dressed in a sheep's tangled overcoat," she said, face set as if in stone and her tone deadly serious. An irritated twitch developed somewhere behind Harry's left eye. It told him to stab Tonks. He told it to shut up.

Harry tried to speak again, but Tonks interrupted once more, adding an emphatic wave of the hand to punctuate her words.

"Still, I've seen a few old family photos that my mum keeps around, and he _did_ have something special around the face and shoulders. "

Some of the frustrated confusion welling up inside Harry began to bubble up and over. He took in a few deep breaths, and broke into her train of thought before she could continue.

"But – "

"AND," said Tonks, taking no notice of Harry's attempt to speak, "I guess he was rather dishy. If he managed to clean himself up after the pictures I've seen on the wanted posters, and fleshed out a bit, I guess I would. Yeah, cousin Sirius could get it on with me without too many complaints – "

At the word cousin, Harry's self-control snapped. His traumatized mind threw up an image of himself and Dudley playing tonsil hockey, and he felt his stomach roil. Years of abuse had nothing on this horror!

"INCEST IS WRONG!"

Harry closed his eyes and gulped in a large breath.

"Don't hurt my innocence any more. Have some sympathy for the poor abused orphan and stop!"

Tonks sniggered.

"Am I worse than your horrible relatives yet?"

"Damn the Dursleys and their inappropriate cupboarding!" shouted Harry, who promptly felt much better, and continued in a more normal tone. "The thought of an inbred baby version of you with pink hair, four legs, a fluffy tail, and webbed paws terrifies me."

"Paws?" asked Tonks. Harry nodded, grimly.

"Webbed paws. They terrify me."

Tonks shook her head and smiled – with that disarming motion, Harry's confused worry began to ebb away.

"You don't care that I'm in contact with the most wanted man in the country?"

"Nope – like I said, I read his letter. Doesn't look like he's going to be running around slaughtering you any time soon, so I won't tell the DMLE on one condition; you explain what the hell is going on."

The wind whistled around them, and Harry shivered. He nodded towards the ground, and Tonks dove sharply downwards, shrieking in surprise at just how fast the firebolt could go. She didn't seem to be making any effort to pull out of the dive. Harry sighed, and followed her. Judging by her earlier performance on his broom, she was not a skilled enough flyer to perform the same daredevil stunts that he orchestrated in his Quidditch matches. Her broom didn't have the speed to catch up with the firebolt, regardless of how good Harry's flying was.

With only metres between her and the ground, Tonks began to pull up. Harry watched with growing apprehension as he realized that she wasn't going to get up in time. He noticed beads of sweat dotting her distant brow, and she seemed to be moving slowly, in a frozen moment – a little like he sometimes felt when reaching for the snitch.

An image of Tonks lying broken on the ground wavered behind Harry's eyes, and he clenched his teeth, desperately wishing for things to slow down. The sense of hyper alertness brought on by adrenaline wasn't enough! He hadn't known her for long, but couldn't stand the thought of losing a friend so new, so soon.

The thought that her death would remove awkward questions about Sirius crossed his mind for a fraction of a second before he pushed it away savagely.

He forced Tonks' broom to its highest speed, willing it to move downwards. It continued to crawl forwards slowly, to his accelerated mind and eyes. Sliding a hand further down the shaft of the broom and crouching closer to it, streamlining himself, Harry found that he, too, was moving slower, sluggishly.

It wasn't enough – he forced every ounce of willpower he had into the broom. Slowly – agonizingly slowly – it began to accelerate. Thoughts of Tonks' death changed to thoughts of his own dark past; a basilisk rose before his eyes, and bared menacing fangs; Lupin, a man he trusted and respected, fell to all fours and turned into a creature of death and despair; Dementors spiralled down onto him, and Sirius – and, lastly, he remembered a high, cold laugh, and a flash of green.

The flash of green distorted everything. It spoke of anger, and hate, and death. That same shade of green light began to rise from Harry's body, illuminating him and outlining the broom.

A harsh crescendo filled the air; the sound of a thousand breaking mirrors; and the broom tore forwards at a speed greater than even his firebolt could manage.

Harry tumbled onto the grass, unhurt, and the green light began to fade. He reached out with one hand, and pushed the firebolt up – less than three feet from the ground, it was painfully obvious that Tonks would not have pulled up in time. Once the firebolt pointed outwards, parallel to the ground, time seemed to snap back into its proper place, and Tonks shot off at the speed she'd been travelling at.

As she drove the firebolt back into her control, Tonks collided with the castle wall and fell onto the springy grass. Harry heard her grumbling from a distance, but didn't look up; his eyes were on her broom, which, as he watched it, began to creak ominously and fall to pieces.

"Harry? How did you..." she began, but trailed off upon coming closer. He looked up, guilt washing away some of his confusion, and stammered out an apology.

"I – I think I broke your broom." He gave her a sheepish grin, and picked up the thick wooden shaft – the largest surviving piece.

Tonks took it from him, and studied it intently.

"Huh. You must have overloaded the speed charms or something. Bugger me if I know how you did it."

Harry crouched down, and began to pick up some of the remaining pieces while Tonks continued to talk.

"Never seen anyone push a broom that fast before. S'a wonder you didn't rip your face off from the pressure or something."

Straightening up, Harry passed her an armful of broken broom fragments, trying not to fall over. He felt strangely dizzy and disoriented, as if he'd been portkeyed in two direction at once while travelling by Floo.

His balance wavered, and he stumbled. His knees hit the grass, and blurred shapes swam through his vision. Although he still wore his glasses, it was as if they had fallen off. Nothing was clear. He clutched his head as spikes of pain shot through it. As if from a great distance, he heard Tonks call his name.

"Harry? _Harry?_"

Everything began to blur, and his hearing became as distorted as his vision. Tonks' words merged into one another, and the blurred shapes began to rush in front of Harry's eyes faster and faster until all he could see was a blinding kaleidoscope of colour.

All sounds around him became a dull roar; the sound of a thousand bees or a restless ocean. Harry fell backwards, and closed his eyes, trying to blink away the nauseating sensation of the world rushing past him.

Only a few seconds had passed when the inexplicable feelings left, and things returned to normal.

Harry opened his eyes, and saw the ceiling of the hospital wing above him. He sat up and looked around; outside the windows, it was growing darker. The only hint of daylight left was a vibrant orange glow illuminating clouds by the distant horizon. With a loud groan, Harry slumped back, and slammed his head into the pillows. The term hadn't even begun, and Harry was already on his second visit to the hospital wing. Nobody else had to put up with this sort of thing.

"Why did I have to be Harry fucking Potter?" he said aloud, wishing for a moment that he could have had an easy, boring, life as Neville Longbottom instead.

"Why indeed, Harry?"

Harry jumped up, startled. Heat rose in his cheeks as he realized what he'd said – and who had overheard him.

"Ah – Professor Dumbledore – sorry...I...I didn't see you."

The headmaster chuckled, and moved into a chair by the bedside.

"I would have been very surprised if you had, dear boy, on account of my not being in the room until you spoke."

Harry frowned; Dumbledore was expected to pull off remarkable stunts, but appearing out of thin air was a bit too much even for him. Then again, Harry mused, he had done so before, in his first year when he had caught Harry gazing into the mirror of Erised – but that time he had been invisible. Harry began to ask if that had been the case, but Dumbledore gave a slight shake of his head, pre-empting the question.

"No, I was not invisible. It's a technique known as Apparition. The delightful minds of muggles would, I believe, dub it as a form of teleportation, although the reality is a little more complex."

Something seemed a little off about that statement. Harry tried to think of why, and Hermione's voice popped into his head, irritably stating _'you can't Apparate in Hogwarts!'_

"But sir, I thought that you can't Apparate inside Hogwarts?"

Dumbledore gave one of his disarming half-smiles, and looked over the top of his half-moon glasses at Harry.

"I see that you've been listening to Miss Granger again. While facts and figures are certainly useful, and she is a most remarkable young witch, she does seem to lack the ability to think as far outside the box as some aspects of magic require. But yes! Alas, you are right. It is a well-known and highly documented fact that Apparation is impossible within Hogwarts grounds."

Harry stared at Dumbledore for a moment, half irritated with the headmaster's reluctance to answer a question directly, and half overcome with fondness for the eccentric old man. He hardly knew him, but in their brief encounters he'd really come to care for him; he was the grandfather that he'd always wanted – one of the faceless relatives that he'd wished would come spirit him away from the Dursleys. While he was not the almost-brother that Ron was, or the almost-family that the Weasleys were fast becoming, in a way he regarded the headmaster as family.

As those thoughts crossed his mind, Harry noticed an odd, wistful expression cross the headmaster's face, speaking of old sorrows, and something else that Harry couldn't quite place – a strange mixture of longing and guilt. It only lasted for a moment, however, and the brightness in his blue eyes couldn't have been a hint of tears.

"I must confess," Dumbledore continued; his tone strange for his first few words, and returning to its normal joviality afterwards. "The rules of magic are ancient and set in stone – the stone of the castle, in this case, and taking the place of wards over a thousand years old. It is impossible to Apparate within those rules, and, as such, I cheated."

The innocent smile that the headmaster gave Harry seemed to be full of the schoolboy mischief that made him so popular among his students. Harry couldn't help but let out a small laugh of his own.

"I was sure that you can't Apparate in Hogwarts," he repeated.

"You cannot, dear boy, and Miss Granger cannot. I, however, can. Let us call it a perk of my job, and say no more."

Harry got the distinct feeling that there was more to it than Dumbledore would say, but understood the request to let the matter rest for now.

"Delightful as the distracting topic of the castle's wards may be, there is a more pressing matter at hand. Tell me – how did you end up in this bed?"

Harry began to explain the events that had happened – or so it seemed to him – mere moments ago.

The headmaster listened attentively, and when Harry began to get into the important part of his narrative, interrupting with minor questions about the exact shade of light.

It was not until Harry had continued speaking, having answered the questions, that the importance of the colour struck him. He stopped speaking, and began to worry about it. It was the same shade as the flash of light that was his first memory - the exact same shade.

"Sir," he began, hesitantly, and stopped, wondering how to phrase it. _Am I using dark magic?_ didn't seem to be an appropriate way to ask – mostly because he was afraid to admit his suspicions out loud.

"No, there is no need to worry. That particular hue of green is not the colour of dark magic, but of soul magic. Unfortunately, the killing curse is classed among that particular branch of magic as it works by means of severing the connection between body and soul," said Dumbledore, pre-empting another of Harry's questions. Harry felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. It was more than a little eerie. He wondered, briefly, if the headmaster could read minds.

As he thought that, he could almost believe that he saw the same not-quite-guilty expression dance across Dumbledore's features, but it was gone so quickly that he decided that he was imagining it.

Once he had finished repeating everything that had happened, the headmaster sat back, looking thoughtful.

"I thought that it was some kind of accidental magic – but that's never left me feeling dizzy before."

Dumbledore hesitated, and then nodded.

"It was accidental, yes, but it wasn't quite accidental magic as you know it. A better term would have been wild magic. When we are children, we often begin to show our magic in a number of small ways – often telekinesis; using magic to pull a toy to us, and so on. Wild magic is like this, and yet not like it. It is a primal force of magic, rather than the application of our own internal power, such as we practice through our wands."

"So wild magic draws on the magic around us?"

The headmaster gave Harry an approving nod, clasping his hands together earnestly, and leaning forwards as if to impart a secret.

"Exactly. You see, Harry, our own magic is not half so powerful as we would like, and requires the use of a wand to amount to anything, save for the most basic of tasks."

"So...when I blew up my Aunt Marge last year, that was accidental magic? An engorgement charm?"

"I thought so when I first heard about it, but now that I see your predisposition towards wild magic, I'm inclined to disagree with my younger and less informed self. Think about it; you did not simply cause her to expand, but to retain some measure of proportionality with her internal organs, meaning that she was in no danger, while inflating to a vast size. That is no mean feat – far beyond the skills of a fifth year taking their OWLs. I would be surprised if more than a handful of NEWT students would be able to deliberately perform a task so onerous – it seems more along the lines of a complex human transfiguration than an engorgement charm – although, of course, such labels are wholly unnecessary when dealing with wild magic."

"And today, sir? What exactly did I do?"

"Time, Harry. It is a fickle friend, and a whimsical foe. If I had to label what happened, I would call it a case of time dilation. You somehow borrowed time from your future, and pushed it a single moment of your present. It's why you collapsed – effectively, you returned that time by slowing by as much as you had accelerated. It will probably happen again, as you borrowed much more than a few hours of time –"

Dumbledore broke off mid-sentence, and took on a worried expression.

"How much faster did you say that the broom was travelling? Comparatively?"

Harry thought about it – the difference was huge; from barely moving to accelerating faster than the broom could move at.

"If beforehand was a walking pace, I was going fast enough to get from one end of the grounds to the other in less than a minute," he said, not entirely sure if he was understating the difference. It had been going incredibly slowly before the change had happened.

The headmaster sighed.

"This will likely present some problems in the year ahead. No matter. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Could you teach me to use this wild magic, then?"

"In theory I could – I am one of a sparse handful to have ever come close to mastering it."

Harry felt his hopes rising, and began to enjoy a flicker of pleasure at the thought of having some skill to back up his fame. He'd always felt something of an imposter, regardless of his accomplishments fighting against Voldemort and the other incarnations of darkness that he'd faced.

"That, sadly, is something I would only be able to teach to someone I took on as an apprentice; something that I have never done before."

Harry quashed his disappointment. He knew that he was a mediocre student, and couldn't hope to take on the role of Dumbledore's apprentice. That would be a position for a gifted witch or wizard like Hermione. He remembered his patronus from last year, but ignored the memory of Hermione telling him how powerful it – and he – must be.

Dumbledore rose, and removed his glasses, tucking them into a pocket of his robe. Harry saw faint lines scored beneath his eyes, and began to wonder if he was sleeping properly. Despite his youthful demeanour, the headmaster looked tired – not from age, but worn out, as if he'd been working too hard, for too long.

The odd expression flickered across Dumbledore's face, and Harry knew that he wasn't imagining it this time. It remained for much longer; a mixture of guilt and a longing for something to be different. He seemed to pause before turning away. As soon as the strange emotions playing out across his face had appeared, they were gone, and his enigmatic half-smile returned.

"No need to look so forlorn, dear boy – I wasn't saying no. On the other hand, an apprenticeship is a formidable undertaking. Are you sure you're up to it?"

Harry felt a burst of elation, and sat up straighter.

"Yes! I'd love to – I mean I'd be really grateful for you teaching me, and I don't want to waste your time, but it's really nice of you, and – "

He cut off his rambling, embarrassed again. Dumbledore smiled, and then froze, looking conflicted. Harry began to think that the headmaster was regretting his decision when he finally spoke again.

"Well then, far be it for me to say if you are fit for the task. It's traditional for a test to be set – an entrance exam, if you will – but I've never set much store by grades. Let me see...

Ah, yes. A fitting challenge! Should you manage to take your place as the Hogwarts champion in the upcoming tournament, I will allow you to take your place at my heel, like an exceedingly well-behaved puppy. "

Harry grimaced at the thought of having to prove himself in so difficult a manner. Still, if his bizarre luck with regards to dangerous and unusual events held true, something good might actually come out of it this time.

"How is the champion chosen, sir?" he asked, already crossing his fingers in the hopes that it wasn't some kind of exam, or a choice based on schoolwork.

"You'll have to wait until everybody else finds out. No need to spoil such an excellent surprise ahead of time, is there? Now, I suggest you make yourself scarce before Madam Pomfrey returns and shackles you to the bed for the night. Don't hesitate to speak to me if your wild magic should come out to play again – and be wary of having fits of timelessness at inopportune moments, like the one that brought you here."

"Ah – yes, thank you, sir," said Harry. Dumbledore raised a hand and tipped his head slightly in acknowledgement, and strode towards the door.

Before he had reached it, he faded away, and disappeared, leaving behind a thin cloud of sparkling dust motes. It was unlike any Apparition Harry had heard about, and he suspected that Dumbledore had done it for his sake, as part of his inherent dramatic flair. He smiled at the thought – but didn't let it hinder his speedy progress out of the door.

Hours later, Harry was sitting on his bed, unable to sleep. His day had only lasted for a few hours, after all. He threw back the covers of his four-poster bed, and went to stand by the window. It was not so dark outside as he'd thought it would be. The moon and stars were out, illuminating the grounds under a cloudless sky. Everything had a misty, ethereal pallor to it, but he could see fairly well. The silvery disk of the moon brought back unpleasant memories of the end of last year. Harry shuddered at the memory of Dementors cloaking the sky in black. He closed the shutter to stave off the chill that ran through him. It didn't help – the cold came from inside.

The trunk lying at the foot of his bed has half-open, and his cloak lay inside it, spooling over the edges where he had carelessly dropped it earlier. Harry picked it up, and put it on.

Half an hour of staring into space later, when his restlessness hadn't faded, he took off the cloak and dressed properly. With the cloak wrapped around his shoulders, he ventured down the spiral staircase and across the common room. He had a moment of apprehension as his hand touched the back of the Fat Lady's portrait, and almost went back for his invisibility cloak, but decided against it. Term hadn't started, he reasoned, so he wasn't breaking curfew by being out so late. His watch, like most of his belongings, was second-hand and unreliable, but he was fairly sure it was close to two in the morning.

The stone walls were cold to touch, and windows were so few and far between that Harry cursed forgetting his wand. He ran a hand against the large blocks from which the castle was built, using the walls as a guide to where he was going. A few paintings grumbled when they were jostled, but could see him no more than he could them.

Eventually, Harry's hand found a stone that was sunk slightly into the wall. He grinned in triumph – it was the mark of one of the many secret passageways dotting the castle. Opposite it, on the other side of the corridor, there was a tapestry depicting something obscure enough that neither he nor Hermione had any idea of its origins. A wizard was there – and a number of bizarre magical devices that Harry didn't recognize. He had no time to gaze at the dusty workroom they were depicted in, as he usually liked to, all because of the accursed darkness. Wishing he'd brought his wand for the hundredth time, he slipped behind the tapestry, and carefully made his way down the steep set of stairs.

His legs were beginning to ache from trudging down so many stairs when a wall finally came up in front of him. It felt solid enough; he walked headfirst into it, and only just managed to pull himself short in time to avoid causing a nasty bruise that would spread across his entire face. Like many others in Hogwarts, it was a door disguised as a trick wall. Unlike the others, it had a lot more rigidity to its illusion.

Harry pressed himself slowly against the wall, and he felt it give way beneath his weight. It was almost like treacle; a thick, sticky substance that was reluctant to let go of him. Getting out was always a nuisance in this passageway, and it took him a full ten seconds to walk through the two metre thickness of this particular wall.

Outside, it seemed bright compared to the utter darkness inside. Harry walked for a while, marvelling at the beauty of the grounds by moonlight. He'd never really appreciated it before. Hogwarts itself was something he'd seen as a work of art from his very first impression, but he'd never thought much of the grounds themselves.

Dewdrops glistened on blades of grass, and trees seemed to be pale, almost skeletal silhouettes dotted with darker leaves. Against Harry's own better judgement, he found himself wandering towards the forest.

He soon stood by its edges, leaning against a tree, and peering deeper inside. It was too dark to go any further. He was content to remain here, for now. The luminous dial of his watch was now coming closer to three than two.

Harry looked up, gazing at the moon. He couldn't tell whether it was full, or close to it, and chuckled nervously, remembering Malfoy's fears of werewolves in the forest, all the way back in first year.

He froze when a shadow moved at the edge of his vision. When it began to edge closer, detaching itself from the trees into a closer patch of shadow, Harry reached for a wand that wasn't there, and cursed his luck. He backed away from it, and it moved closer. It was still too dark to see it properly – all he could make out was four legs and a head held high. He bit his lip, desperately trying to think of a way out of this.

If he ran, it would surely give chase, and it would doubtlessly be faster than Dudley. Somehow, Harry didn't think that getting caught by it would be as pleasant as an encounter with Dudley and his gang of thugs, either.

It was with some surprise that Harry noticed that his fists were clenched. He could feel a number of hot pinpricks where his fingernails dug into his palms, and, on some level, dully took note of the fact that he was preparing to fight whatever the hell this thing was.

The shadowy figure took a step forward, and Harry forced himself not to turn tail and run. It stopped in its tracks, and stood there, staring at him.

Harry watched, amazed, as it lowered its head in a bow.

"Buckbeak?" he asked, incredulous. A beak pushed against his shoulder was his only reply. He let out a breath he didn't remember holding, and began to laugh with hysterical relief. Buckbeak snorted, and pushed against his shoulder again, a little more forcefully. Harry gave in, and began to pat the hippogriff.

At Buckbeak's insistence, Harry climbed onto his back. The powerful wings on either side of him beat the air furiously, and he felt sleek muscles moving underneath feathers and skin.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry noted that the moon wasn't full after all, but a handful of days on one side. He never could tell which. Astronomy wasn't his strongest subject by a long way.

Over in the distance, he saw a section of forest dominated by webbing. It reflected the moonlight very well, almost seeming to glow. He hadn't imagined that the Acromantula nest was anywhere near that large. Hagrid's comments to Dumbledore didn't seem anything short of understatement – although Harry's opinion was that even one Acromantula was one too many.

Shapes moved among the webbing, and Buckbeak veered away, unwilling to fly too close to the nest. Harry wrapped his arms around his neck, and leaned down close, as if riding a broom. Buckbeak responded perfectly, folding his wings and diving forwards in a series of aerial acrobatics that few birds could match.

Harry felt wind rushing through his hair, and saw the ground rushing towards him at an incredible speed, and felt completely at peace.


End file.
